


Devote Myself To You

by lathanya



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Together, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Language Barrier, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Religious Conflict, Slow Burn, The Author Striving for Historical Accuracy and Hoping for the Best, Violence, murder but make it TENDER, religious angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25740313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lathanya/pseuds/lathanya
Summary: "Whatever faith or fate led me to this battle, it also led me to you. I don’t know what God has planned, but He put us here. I trust in that. I trust Him. I trust you."Yusuf knew then that he would follow this man wherever he wanted to go. He would follow this man to the edge of the earth and then over.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 25
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic. These immortal husbands, amirite??

Nicolò’s breath stuttered alive in his chest as his lungs took in deep heavy gulps. When his eyes blinked open, he was facedown, his bloody lips coated in coarse sand. Groaning, he pushed himself up into a seated position. His memories flooded back; he had been sure he was going to die. The pain had been excruciating. He vividly remembered the thrumming, thundering ache as he had clutched desperately at the never-ending supply of blood pooling out of his abdomen. It had made the sand slick and muddy. 

He had felt the air leave him and the darkness take him. Nicolò had been ready to meet his God, to find his salvation and his peace in whatever comes next. But apparently it was not his time yet, he was still needed here.

He patted his stomach, searching for the puncture and trying to resume pressure on the open wound. However, all 

Nicolò found was drying blood and a rip in his tabard the length of his hand. His skin underneath was perfectly smooth, no jagged edges, no oozing blood. 

“Impossible,” Nicolò uttered aloud, hand automatically moving to clutch the cross around his neck. 

The ground around him was littered with bodies, some were slumped in frozen images of agony, others were splayed out on their backs. He found he couldn’t stare at their faces for long, their unblinking dead eyes caused something to retch inside him. 

Nicolò heard the continued shouts of battle and cries of pain in the distance. He wasn't able to see through the layers of smoke and dust that had settled thick around him, but he knew from the distinct clang of swords that the siege still continued. Nicolò still had his duty to fulfill. His fellow soldiers were out there fighting for God, and Nicolò felt the need to find them. Nicolò was tired of the death he had seen, tired of the nights without food and without warmth, but he knew if they lost this battle, if they could not take Jerusalem, then everything they had worked towards would be for nothing. All these men would have died in vain. He knew God would not see them fail now, after everything Nicolò had seen. God would not wish for this endless, ruthless bloodshed without a victory, some kind of end in sight.

He staggered to his feet and looked around desperately for his sword. He saw it then, sticking out of a heretic only steps away. The man was on his side, Nicolò’s broad sword plunged deep in his belly, piercing through his chain armor and his blue cloak stained dark in blood. His helmet had rolled away leaving his face bare, and his eyes staring straight. 

Lifeless.

This man had been the one to stab him. Nicolò recognized him immediately. This Saracen had stabbed him in the back, his curved sword tearing through him before it was just as roughly ripped out again. Nicolò had turned to see his would-be murderer, his sword dripping in Nicolò’s blood. He was already looking for his next kill. It took all Nicolò had to keep his footing before lurching forward and jabbing the man. If it was his destiny to die, he would not fall without taking this man’s life in return.

The man’s eyes had bulged wide and a gasp was ripped from him. He had clearly not been expecting Nicolò to be able to stand, let alone swing his sword. His knees had buckled then and he fell, taking Nicolò’s sword with him. 

Nicolò couldn’t remember anything after that. Just the consistent pain pounding through every muscle, and the warmth of his blood coating everything as he sunk to the ground. 

Now, looking upon the face of the man, Nicolò grabbed the hilt of his blade, tearing it from the gut of his would-be murderer. He grabbed a shield from a fallen brother, it had only been slightly damaged from battle. His own had been splintered in battle long before he had fallen. Kneeling, he said a few short words of prayer: prayer for the souls of the fallen he could not put to rest, prayer for the lives he had taken in the name of God, and prayer in astonished gratitude for his own survival. He stood then and began walking toward the distant sounds of war ready to rejoin the battle, but he was stopped in his tracks by a deep startling gasp of breath. 

Turning with his sword at the ready, Nicolò saw the man he had suredly killed gasping and clutching at his abdomen. His eyes twisted in pain.

“Impossible,” Nicolò said for the second time. 

At the sound of his voice, the man’s eyes shot open, taking in Nicolò standing above him. He muttered something harsh in Arabic spitting blood as he spoke before clambering to his feet, his falchion suddenly in hand. His brown eyes were darkened in rage as he continued to mutter and spew foreign words at Nicolò. 

Nicolò waited for the man to get his footing. He did not want to kill a defenseless, staggering, wounded man. But as soon as the man was steady, Nicolò charged and his enemy raised his sword to meet him. 

He was able to fend off Nicolò’s heavy blows and they continued to trade hits. Iron met iron with every swing. 

Eventually the Saracen managed to slice the back of Nicolò’s leg, severing the ligaments and causing him to fall to his knee in sudden blinding pain. His enemy stalked towards him.

Nicolò knew he wouldn’t be able to stand again, but he also knew he could not let this man live. If Nicolò failed, it would only bring the death of more Christian men at the hands of this fiend. It would be his last act on earth, he would martyr himself to rid the world of one more heathen. Nicolò feigned the motion of grabbing his bleeding wound, as he secretly grabbed a small knife hidden in his boot. He sat waiting for the opportunity to strike. His opponent stalked his prey like a cat with a cunning smile on full display. He brought his curved sword to land on Nicolò’s chest, before it was slowly plunged in. He took care to watch the pain bloom on Nicolò’s face. He got closer as his blade sunk in deeper, and Nicolò fought the encroaching fuzziness at the edges of his vision as he brought out his concealed knife. Quick as a viper, he sliced this man's throat in a single motion. Blood arched and coated Nicolò’s face as the man staggered backwards, taking his sword with him and ripping it unceremoniously from Nicolò’s chest. The Saracen gasped for breath as his blood spewed from his sliced jugular. The last thing Nicolò saw before the darkness took him was his enemy’s face as the light faded from his eyes. 

Yusuf regained consciousness, with breath sputtering in and out of his lungs. His hand was still poised at his neck, frozen in a desperate clutched pose to keep his blood contained. He took his hand away and saw the dried blood between his fingers and caked under his nails. He turned his head towards his killer who was sitting slumped over where Yusuf had staked him. 

If it hadn't been for the pain, and the shock, and the desperation in those last moments of consciousness, Yusuf might have been impressed at how the Frank had managed to keep his countenance long enough to slice his throat, all while a sword was plunged deep inside his chest cavity. He needed to remember this. As much as he hated these invaders, he would not underestimate them again. He would not let his guard down, no matter how secure the victory seemed. 

He laid there contemplating, steadying his heart and staring at the dead body before him until it moved suddenly, gasping with life. 

Yusuf could not believe it. 

He had thought he’d killed him once, but there was a chance the wound had been superficial. In the heat of battle with men yelling in every direction, he had been distracted, and it was possible he had missed vital areas.

But this time, Yusuf had been sure to take care plunging his sword into the man’s chest, puncturing his organs, and leaving no chance of survival. There was no way this man—whose body had been unmoving just seconds ago, eyes glazed in death—could still be alive. But even as logic tried to take root in Yusuf’s mind, the man’s head lifted. His pale eyes shifted across the various dead forms around them before focusing on Yusuf. Yusuf could see his own surprise, shock, and confusion mirrored back, before it was taken over with a look of naked rage and anger. 

Before Yusuf could think they were both on their feet, swords swinging. 

Yusuf knew somehow they both had survived their fatal wounds, that was obvious. But what continued to surprise him was their enduring energy. He felt no pain, no weariness. He knew himself to be in good shape, but by now his muscles should be aching with each exertion. Even the best warriors flagged after hours of sustained fighting: their muscles drained of energy, their legs growing heavy under the weight of battle. And yet, Yusuf felt as though he had just started.  
His enemy looked just as limber and agile as Yusuf felt, and he matched each blow with fierce determination and resilience. 

The Frank eventually managed to get a few good swipes in, cutting Yusuf’s side and his leg. Yusuf fought through the pain. It was almost a relief to feel something again. And it gave him the drive to attack his enemy with everything he had. He wailed on him, hitting his raised shield over and over until it splintered. In his frenzied attacks, Yusuf managed to sink his blade down into the juncture of his shoulder and down into his chest. His enemy screamed out in agony before dropping dead at his feet. But Yusuf knew he could not fail a third time. He pulled his blade free, plunging it in and out again and again with the divine fury and almighty purpose of Allah guiding him. No man could survive the rampage of his blade. 

Once satisfied with his righteous carnage, Yusuf staggered back, catching his breath and wiping the sweat and blood from his face. With his enemy a splattered, bloody mess, he was able to finally spend time taking in his surroundings. The smoke and sand had begun to settle around the otherwise abandoned area. It was a scene of utter horror. Men and horses lay dead in every direction, and the red...so much red. The sand was dark with it. He could see the smoke rising from Jerusalem, and spotted men still fighting outside her walls. The city was not lost.

He knew he would have to start making his way to them. He doubted he could get through the invading army to get back behind her walls, but there was a slim chance there would still be survivors outside the city. He would try. He couldn't leave now. Yusuf knew he had to fix the wounds that the Frank had given him first. Unsupported, the slice on his leg would make traversing difficult. He ripped a long strip of fabric off his cloak to fashion into a bandage, but when he inspected the flesh under the slit in his clothing he found no damaged skin, nothing that matched the intense agony he had felt. Yusuf knew he had been hit. He knew he had bled. He had felt the pain that shot through his leg, it had made every step a near impossible task, and yet now there was nothing. 

Was this a blessing? Was he given this divine power to rid this world of these Byzantines? He knelt south towards Mecca, prostrated in prayer. If this was a gift, it was only because his God willed it so. He had deemed Yusuf worthy. He had been blessed with divine right. He prayed and thanked Him for his life until Yusuf heard the now familiar sound of choking breath. 

Turning sharply, Yusuf looked towards the body of the fallen knight. He had pressed and twisted his blade into that dead body more times than he could have counted on both hands. He had watched as red pooled from the body. No man could have survived the punishment of Yusuf’s blade. Yet, when Yusuf looked, there he was, his chest rising and falling with impossible life. His head was bowed in pain. But sure enough, within a moment the man grabbed his fallen sword and stood with a lithe grace. 

He saw his foe kneeling in prayer, nodded once, and spoke words Yusuf did not know. His enemy jerked his head. The meaning was clear to Yusuf: get up and fight. 

Yusuf was utterly dumb founded. If this power was indeed bestowed to him by God, why was his enemy given the same? Was this a test? A trial of faith? Yusuf did not know for sure, but he knew despite it all, this man had to die at all costs. A Christian knight with multiple lives, or at least supernatural healing abilities, could not be allowed to live. 

Yusuf took his time standing, pretending to be tired and weak from their fight, hoping to lull the foreigner into a false sense of security, before he rushed him, blade held high above his head. 

Nicolò awoke again. He wasn’t sure how many times he had died. It had to be a hundred by now. He was utterly tired. His body had continued to heal, his muscles and bones fixing themselves no matter the atrocities this Muslim did to him, but his mind was exhausted. His body may have forgotten every slice and slash, but his mind bore the memory of every single one. He was weary of soul. The sun had long since set and in its absence the bitter cold of night had been ushered in. 

But no matter what they did to each other, they kept surviving. They kept coming back to each other, again and again. Nicolò had been stabbed, sliced, carved, beheaded, and everything in between. And when their swords had failed them, they had left their weapons on the ground, slowly and painstakingly killing each other with their bare hands. And yet, despite every wound that by all rights should have sent him to Heaven, there Nicolò laid, alive, with breath in his lungs and a heart beating in his chest. 

He turned his head towards the Saracen. He was laying flat on his back an arms length away. Nicolò could see his chest rising. It was dark and his face was covered in blood, but Nicolò could tell his eyes were open, staring up at the night sky. Nicolò turned to look. It was beautiful. There were stars as far as Nicolò’s eyes could see. They were like a million twinkling little eyes staring down on them, watching as they killed again and again, and lived again and again.  
Nicolò turned his head to look back at his enemy, only to find his gaze turned upon him. Whatever this man saw in Nicolò’s face caused his brow to furrow, but before Nicolò could even contemplate its meaning, the man had turned and grabbed his weapon. Nicolò sighed, exhaling the weight of a hundred deaths. This man could not stop. He clearly had a duty to kill Nicolò until the sun burned out and the stars fell from the heavens. 

But Nicolò was tired. Truthfully, he never wanted to be a warrior or a killer. He had been a man of God, he had been a simple priest at a simple monastery, trying to live a simple life in God’s light. But war had come and he was now a part of something bigger, something holier. He had not followed men, but God into battle. He knew he would lay down his life, dying happily in righteous fury for a higher power in these holy lands. He would follow his orders, and kill and die when it was demanded of him. He would make his family proud when he did not return, and they would be content in the knowledge he had given up his body and his soul to God.

But dying had unexpectedly been a tougher trial than he had expected. Instead, his fate was to spend his life in these foreign lands dying and living and killing at the hand of his enemy till the earth opened and swallowed them both.  
He prayed then to his God, his hands clutching at his throat where his cross hung, sitting up to kneel in supplication.  
His opponent stood swinging his weapon. Waiting. They had gotten good at waiting. When a wound took longer to heal or someone took a moment to stand or they had to walk to find their fallen weapon among the dead, the other would stand waiting, or kneel in silent prayer while the other took a few minutes to reattach a limb. 

So the Saracen waited for Nicolò. He knew Nicolò would stand when he was ready. But Nicolò would not stand. He did not want this fate. He knew then he would not condemn himself, nor his enemy to die again and again and again. That was a fate he would not wish upon anyone. Whatever work was at play, be it God or demon, it would not win. Nicolò would not accept this as his life. And maybe it was Nicolò’s exhaustion, or the thick blood caked on every inch of him, or perhaps it was the bile that continued to rise in his throat at the smell of death around him, but he knew he could not kill this man again. 

Nicolò took his sword from where it lay half-submerged in sand and held it out with his hands facing up, before letting it fall in a clear sign of surrender. The cycle had to end, and clearly it would not be broken by their swords. Their continued deaths didn't seem to appease whatever forces were at work. Nicolò hung his head. If it had to end with his death, then so be it. This war be damned. This was Hell, and he had been left here. The only way out was with contrition and penance and maybe then he could be forgiven for whatever sins he had committed. 

He heard the man’s steps in the sand as he walked closer. And Nicolò felt when the blade pressed in, the darkness taking him once again. 

Yusuf watched as the young man died at his hand.

He hadn’t fought. He just sat there, head hanging low, sword fallen. In quiet fury, Yusuf had murdered him again, plunging his scimitar as deep as it could go, twisting it until he knew the man’s life was gone again. He didn’t know why the Christian’s lack of will had upset him, but how dare he give up. Yusuf was angry at his God, angry at the death of his fallen allies, angry at the city he was supposed to protect, angry at the very stars above. 

It made no sense. It had to be a blessing to still be alive, but to die over and over at the hand of an enemy who was just as unkillable? That was a curse. 

And how dare this man try to leave this purgatory without him. 

But Yusuf knew as soon as he had killed him, as soon as the blade had left his body, as soon as the Frank had slumped over in death, all that rage and pain had left Yusuf. 

His enemy had stopped fighting, he had killed a defenseless man. The only man in the entire world that knew what it was like to suffer. The only man in the entire world that knew what it was like to die and live. He hadn’t known it would be the last time he would kill the foreigner, but he knew now he wouldn’t be able to kill this man again. Not after taking his life with no cause, no reason except blood for blood’s sake. He wouldn’t be a monster, wouldn’t be what they had painted them as. 

He turned around, realizing for the first time how alone they truly were in the middle of a field of dead bodies. It was pitch black and cold. And now that all the rage and energy had left him, Yusuf was chilled to the bone. He began to look around him for the things they would need to survive the night. 

When Nicolò breathed again, he felt all hope drain from him. It hadn’t ended. He had sacrificed himself, he had chosen his death over the suffering of another. Hadn’t that been the test? He had wanted to break the cycle, to fulfill whatever destiny this was, but apparently this was above mortal interpretation. 

He kept himself bowed, praying to whomever would listen, and waiting for the blade to come again. But when nothing happened, Nicolò lifted his head and saw his partner in this endless hellscape. He was sitting a few yards away in a patch of sand cleared of bodies. He had made a small fire made of broken shields and stakes, anything he had been able to find in their limited surroundings. His face was cleaned of the caked blood. Nicolò noticed he wore new clothes, his old ones had been tattered, hanging from his body in great long ribbons. He was staring intently into the fire, the flickering lights dancing on his dark skin. Nicolò sat watching in silence, just waiting for him to realize he was alive again. 

But instead when his eyes lifted and met Nicolò’s gaze, it was without rage. It lacked all the hate and heat Nicolò was used to. In its place was just deep contemplation and exhaustion that could only have come from dying as many times as they had.

Nicolò could see his heavy sigh, the sag of his shoulders, before he waved at Nicolò, clearly beckoning. When Nicolò did not move, he sighed again, nodding his head. He spoke then, in Arabic, but Nicolò did not understand. The man stood, and Nicolò’s entire body tensed, knowing what would come next. But before he could move or speak or beg to the God he knew had abandoned him, his killer picked up his weapon, the curved scimitar that had tasted Nicolò’s flesh more times than could be counted, and threw it far into the inky darkness. He turned back to Nicolò and held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. He gestured to the spot across from him near the fire. Nicolò understood the gesture, but he could not comprehend the meaning behind it. 

The man sat again, choosing to stare into the fire, giving Nicolò time to decide what he wanted to do. 

Slowly, Nicolò stood staggering, his legs felt like jelly, but he managed to walk to the fire and sit where the man had indicated. He crossed his legs, his hands planted on either side, fingers digging into the cold sand, keeping him grounded on this unfamiliar land. 

He looked to the Saracen and cocked his head in an appearance of an unspoken question. 

But the man just stared back, before he swung his arm and threw something at Nicolò. Nicolò flinched waiting for the now familiar pain of a knife piercing his skin, but instead it landed softly in his lap. When he looked, he found a flagon. He glanced at the man who then mimicked drinking. 

Well if he took all this effort to kill him by poison, then so be it. Good on him for being creative. He uncorked it and took a long, deep swig. It tasted divine, just plain clean, clear water. If it was indeed poisoned he couldn't taste it, and even if it was it would be worth the pain, Nicolò thought as he quenched his thirst with deep gulps. 

After he was done, Nicolò dropped the flagon to the ground. And suddenly something else landed in his lap. It was a small twined wrapped thing, and upon opening Nicolò found pieces of dried meat inside. Upon seeing the food, Nicolò’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten before battle, he had been uneasy with nerves and he knew he wouldn't have been able to keep anything down. And before that everyone had been made to fast for three days by the Bishop, who had seen a vision from God. Nicolò inhaled the food, the meat was especially salty and especially tough, but Nicolò didn't care.

After eating and taking another gulp of water from his flagon, he stared at his companion again. He was leaning back watching Nicolò intently. When Nicolò met his gaze, the man moved his eyes pointedly to a pile of clothes on top of a pack with a rolled blanket. He spoke more soft Arabic, but Nicolò understood the meaning from context. They were clothes to change into, since his own were destroyed. But he didn't want to move. He had so many questions, but most of them boiled down to a simple, “Why?” He had no idea what had changed. Why was he feeding him, giving him clothes, and offering him a seat by his fire. They had spent an entire day and an entire night murdering each other in every twisted way they could imagine. And now they were sitting in peace by a warm fire. But Nicolò also wanted to ask why they were like this? Why were they chosen to live? Did this man have any idea? Because Nicolò was drowning in his doubts and fears. 

But he couldn’t ask any of these things.

The man brought his hand to his chest distinctly, placing his hand over his heart before saying, “Yusuf ibn Ibraham ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani.”

His name.

Nicolò moved his hand in the same motion. “Nicolò. Nicolò di Genova.”

Yusuf nodded, before repeating in confirmation, “Nicolò.”

His accent bent around the name in a pleasing way, and Nicolò smiled despite himself. “Yusuf,” Nicolò replied.

He shifted under Nicolò’s gaze, suddenly uncomfortable. He laid down on his make-shift bed abruptly, turning his back to Nicolò. 

Nicolò was shocked at the gesture. He trusted Nicolò to not kill him, or at least he knew he couldn’t die from Nicolò’s hand. Either way, this was what Nicolò needed to know: that he wouldn’t die again. At least not by this man’s hands. He grabbed the clothes Yusuf had gathered for him. There was a set of simple clothes and a cloak, they had a few specks of blood but nothing like the dreads hanging off Nicolò currently. He noticed everything Yusuf had picked was nondescript, no distinct symbols or red crosses. Just earthy colors and blacks. Whatever he had planned, he didn't want Nicolò looking like a Byzantine Christian. 

Nicolò changed quickly. And then he checked the pack Yusuf had gathered for him as well. It was a small simple rucksack, definitely from a fellow soldier. He took out the contents and catalogued them, leaving out the things he knew he wouldn’t need for a journey, whether that would be back to his camp alone or with this man.

Before settling in for sleep with his enemy-turned-fire-side-companion, Nicolò walked back to the sight of their brutal fight. He found his sword. It wasn’t anything special, but it was his only true belonging left. He didn't know if his companion would let him carry it with him, but he grabbed it nevertheless, not wanting it to be lost to the sands by morning.  
His sword clutched in his grasp, Nicolò laid down on his blanket, using his new pack as a pillow for his head. He turned facing Yusuf, watching the rise and fall of his breath over the fire as he fell asleep. 

Yusuf shot up out of sleep only a few hours later, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. He had dreamt of two women. One northern and fair and one eastern with pitch black hair. It felt so real. He pressed his eyes closed, trying to remember all the details. They were fighting in a battle together. They were fierce and strong warriors, and in battle, they moved as one. 

He looked towards Nicolò, and found he was awake as well, chest hammering in quick falls and peaks. His eyes were wide with a wild look. He shook his head like trying to physically rid himself of a memory, before he rubbed his eyes. Yusuf thought of his dream. Had Nicolò dreamt of them too? 

Yusuf waited for Nicolò to regain his countenance before sitting up, instantly drawing Nicolò’s attention with his movement. He grabbed a stick from the dead fire and half crawled to Nicolò’s side. Nicolò didn't move away or jump in fear. He just stared wildly at Yusuf in confusion. 

Yusuf drew in the sand with the stick. Drawing two rudimentary figures, two women: one with a curved axe and one with a bow and arrow. He looked at Nicolò, before pointing to his temple and then pointing to the drawing. If Nicolò hadn't had the same dream, this would be incomprehensible and he would probably think Yusuf mad.  


But thankfully Nicolò’s eyes widened even larger, nodding enthusiastically. He exclaimed with quick words, which Yusuf gathered was an agreement. 

Nicolò pointed to the drawing and pointed to his temple, before spewing fast and erratic Genoese in some explanation, it was obvious he was describing his own dreams in rushed detail. 

Yusuf fell back, sitting in amazement, while Nicolò continued to ramble, gesturing wildly with his hands. Whatever linked the two of them connected them to these women as well. They had to find them. 

Yusuf looked to the city. Jerusalem had fallen sometime in the night. The smoke plumed from inside the walls in big dark clouds. Yusuf thought of his fellow soldiers. Of the young boys he had seen putting on helmets and grabbing spears. Of the women huddling in temples and synagogues, hoping to escape the smell and sight of death. He had to see what was happening in the city and to its people.

Nicolò had stopped talking at some point, noticing his companion’s diverted attention. Nicolò spoke again, now softer with less exuberance. 

Yusuf shook his head. They needed a common language. He thought before he spoke in Greek, “Do you speak Greek?”

Nicolò shook his head, before bringing his hand up showing a small sum with his fingers, “Little.”

Yusuf asked again, this time in the language of the Franks, “Franca?”

“Yes,” Nicolò replied, changing languages along with Yusuf. “Not much, but enough to speak with Frank soldiers,” his hand waffled along with his words. 

“I know less,” Yusuf said as he stumbled to find the right words. He spoke Greek well, it was what most merchants spoke along the mediterranean. This was harder. “Enough to speak with Frank merchants,” Yusuf parroted back. 

Nicolò laughed, and Yusuf immediately smiled in response. His laugh was warm and deep and it made Yusuf feel pleasant as a sudden warmth settled deep inside him. He turned away then, remembering his cause and his pain. 

“The city is… lost… I must go. I help survivors, if I can,” Yusuf explained. His oath to the city may have ended, but he was still indebted to protect her people. He wanted to explain that to Nicolò, but none of his tradesman vocabulary could encapsulate the need he felt then.

He looked back to Nicolò, who stared at him in a tight contemplation. It was a long moment, then suddenly he nodded once before standing. “I will go with you. If the city is truly gone, you will need help getting in,” Nicolò explained easily as if Yusuf had asked if he could just borrow some rope. No questions, no demands, just easy acceptance. Whatever they had been last night, they were something different now. The night had changed them. 

Now Nicolò was up and wandering among the dead trying to find something, he was searching, only occasionally stopping to bend over and push the dead to dig beneath them. Eventually he must have found what he was looking for, walking back with a pile of armor. Yusuf was still comprehending the turn of events, and he could do nothing but sit dumbfounded at this man’s easy compliance. 

Nicolò dropped a Frank helmet and a broken shield with the painted red cross across the wood near Yusuf. He then began replacing his own lost tabard with an identical new one, it was bloody and muddy, but there was nothing grievously wrong with it. 

“Here. Wear. When we get to the gate, I’ll speak. We were wounded. We survived. They let us in. But you must look like them,” Nicolò explained. Yusuf couldn't understand every word, and Nicolò was obviously stumbling through the language himself, but the meaning was clear. 

Yusuf fiddled with the helmet before asking, “Why do you help me?”

Nicolò had already begun to pack up his items from last night, stuffing them into his pack, but he stopped to turn towards Yusuf. “If the city has truly fallen, my oath is… gone… and I don’t know what this means,” he gestured to himself and then at Yusuf, and then at the forgotten drawing of the women from their dreams, “but whatever faith or fate led me to this battle, it also led me to you. I don’t know what God has planned, but He put us here. Clearly we were meant to,” he gestured again between them, clearly not knowing any word in any language that would sum up their relationship right now, “and I trust in that. I trust Him. I trust you. And if this is what you choose to fight for, then well...” Nicolò shrugged. 

Yusuf couldn't understand it all, but he knew then that he would follow this man wherever he wanted to go. When his oath was fulfilled, he would follow this man to the edge of the earth and then over. 

But he didn't have the words, so he just nodded. 

They spent a few moments packing up their new supplies and grabbing anything they felt they needed from the closest dead bodies. Nicolò fished a small dagger off a fellow Christian to replace the one he had lost from his boot. He managed to gather a few more full water skins and some spare food. He wasn’t sure when they would get a chance to get more. 

While scavenging, he saw Yusuf’s blade sticking out of the sand, still embedded from when it had been thrown last night. He recognized it as Yusuf’s instantly, he knew it wasn’t just another blade from an errant dead man. It had been plunged in Nicolò’s chest so many times, he doubted he could ever forget the shape of the handle. He grabbed it, before making his way back to Yusuf, who sat organizing all the food items into his pack. He looked up when Nicolò approached. Nicolò flipped the blade in his hand, wary of the sharp edge. He held the pommel out towards Yusuf, in a clear offering. 

Yusuf thanked him in Arabic this time, as he bowed his head. He took the blade from him, securing it in its sheath on his back. 

When they felt they were ready Nicolò made sure Yusuf’s new helmet was covering his face, and they began their march towards the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am definitely no historian, so I apologize for any mistakes. I tried my best to research as much as I could, but I know there's probably some inaccuracies. 
> 
> I also want to thank Lindsay for being the best beta and for helping me corral my commas. 
> 
> If you'd like to comment I would love to hear from you! I want to yell about these boys with you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is jam-packed full of angst and grief and guilt, just for you guys. Plus the boys being SOFT as hell. Enjoy!

Yusuf and Nicolò trudged through the dead side by side. As they closed in on the city, the amount of bodies steadily increased, and the stench became heavy and thick in the air. Both of them tried desperately not to breathe in for as long as they could bear it. When they reached the outskirts of the walls, they witnessed men throwing the dead over the side, heaving them up and over the edge. Each body landed with a loud thud, piling high in careless heaps against the wall. 

Upon reaching the closest gate, the men patrolling the walls began to yell down to them in a language Yusuf recognized but did not know. 

Nicolò responded in kind. He shouted back while gesturing wildly with his hands. Occasionally, he would wave in Yusuf’s direction and then back to himself. He mimed an injury at his side where the blood on his stolen tabard was most prominent. And he pointed to Yusuf’s head multiple times. Yusuf didn’t know if this was simply how Nicolò always talked, hands waving emphatically, or if he was merely doing it for Yusuf’s benefit. Trying to give Yusuf subtle clues about what was being discussed. Either way, it did help him keep track of the conversation. And Yusuf tried to pretend like he understood the language, moving his head along with their dialogue and nodding in affirmation whenever Nicolò gestured to him.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew if Nicolò still carried any remnants of ill will, this would be the moment Nicolò would turn on him. He could easily give Yusuf up by explaining that he was an enemy. And although everything Yusuf had been taught screamed in his head to the contrary, Yusuf could do nothing but trust him. Even as the memory of Nicolò eviscerating him hours earlier still burned in his mind, he could not doubt Nicolò’s intentions.

He had trusted Nicolò not to kill him while he slept. Yusuf had trusted him with his name and his father’s name and his father’s name, and in turn Nicolò had trusted Yusuf with his. Yusuf had shared his meal. And in the morning light, Nicolò had returned his sword. These were things Yusuf could not take lightly. He knew Allah had put this man here for a reason. And faith always required a little trust.

The wood and iron creaked as the gate opened. Whatever lies Nicolò has spun had apparently done the trick, or perhaps it was just his easy countenance and readily apparent good nature. There was a small opening, wide enough for them to slip pass, and almost as soon as they were through the men were already in a rush to close it behind them. 

Nicolò shouted back to the men and gave them a quick wave.

One of the men on the wall gestured in a general direction northwards; pointing to a location they could not see from the ground before speaking. And then it seemed they were done with them. 

Nicolò turned to Yusuf as they walked, speaking quietly, now in Frankish, “They did not question us. They didn’t like that you were silent, but I said you had a head injury and were...” Yusuf saw as Nicolò struggled to find a word, before he abandoned the attempt and put a finger to his lips. Silent. Mute. “Where do you want to go? The guards. They said that many are at the Tower of David, the Governor and the Fatimid have fallen back there. Do you want to go? If what they describe is true I don’t think we could get in,” Nicolò explained. 

Yusuf nodded. “No you are right. It would be...” he shook his head not knowing the word for ‘futile.’ He knew those people would either bargain their way out or die from starvation, there was no way he and Nicolò could help. The Tower would already be surrounded; they would die trying to enter. And when they inevitably came back to life, there would be many unanswerable questions. He did not want to be found to be an immortal by either side. Yusuf couldn’t predict what would happen, but it would not be favorable for them. “I just want to find people who need help. I don't want us to get taken. Don't want them to see us...come back. It would be bad. We need to be smart, and safe,” he tried to speak quietly. He knew his accent would give him away as surely as his skin. 

Nicolò agreed and motioned for Yusuf to lead the way into Jerusalem. 

They roamed through the city, Nicolò following Yusuf’s hesitant lead as they meandered down roads and hopped from building to building. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible when soldiers rushed by. Every house and shop they entered was ransacked and abandoned, but they still hoped to find someone who had managed to hide. 

As they got further into the city, it became clear the invaders didn’t plan on keeping anyone alive. Orders must have been given to purge the city; it seemed none had survived.

The streets were a mess. Red ran down the stone in heavy, thick streams, pooling in deep puddles. Bodies lay where they were struck, and on corners they found great makeshift pyres, ready to be moved and burned. 

They both tried their hardest not to look too closely. With every glance, the faces of the dead were seared into their minds. But Nicolò noticed how Yusuf would slow every time they passed. Nicolò saw the grief in his posture as he silently mourned each loss. His gaze was always lingering. If it had been a readily available option, Nicolò knew Yusuf would have chosen to stand and take in every single face, committing each to memory. Whenever Yusuf stopped and stared for too long, Nicolò would pull him away softly, ushering him further into the city with a gentle hand. There would be time to mourn later. 

He felt Yusuf’s pain acutely. Nicolò’s empathy for this man was slowly drowning him as he watched the sag of Yusuf’s shoulders, the heaviness of his gait. Nicolò felt the guilt swell and bloom in his gut and clutch at his lungs, making it hard to breathe. This was a cause Nicolò had fought for. And no matter how naive he had been about the aftermath, Nicolò knew he was just as responsible as the men who had dealt the blows. Their blood was on his hands, and Nicolò knew he would carry that stain for the rest of his life.

With heavy hearts and weary minds they continued north, weaving in and around clumps of soldiers until they came upon a flood of white clad knights. Nicolò gestured to Yusuf; he wanted to follow and see what was happening. Yusuf guided him as they inched around, choosing alleyways to avoid the crowds as they crept closer.

There were hundreds of Franks and Byzantines and Romans shuffling towards one central destination. And as they turned the corner, still hidden from the greater horde, Nicolò stopped immediately at the sight before him. The men were going into a large stone church. Instantly, Nicolò recognized where they were, despite never having been there before. He knew instinctively there was only one place that could deserve such easy devotion.

“The Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” Nicolò said breathlessly. Every single knight had known this was his final destination in this bloody war. They all had journeyed across empires and oceans to reach this church. They had killed in the name of God and their crusader princes, knowing that if they survived they would come here.

“Yes,” Yusuf nodded, although Nicolò needed no affirmation. 

While watching the men enter and exit the church, Nicolò felt the grief and the guilt build in his chest again. It unfurled inside him, taking up so much space he felt claustrophobic in his own body. “This was what we were promised,” Nicolò explained. He hoped talking would alleviate the tightness pulsing and clenching around his heart and up into his throat. “This is the great reward for a job well done. ‘A pilgrimage,’ they said. We would be taking a sacred pilgrimage to this great land. We would look upon these walls. Step where He stepped. Where He died. Where He was resurrected.”

He looked at Yusuf then, knowing the irony of a man coming back to life was not lost on either of them. But Yusuf merely nodded, his eyes urging him to continue. 

“I just… what we’ve seen. Out there. In here. None of this is holy. None of this is righteous,” Nicolò spat the words with venom now. “I would rather believe we are alone, with no gods, than believe in a god that would want this. I realize now, it wasn’t God just petty men. I hate them for what they've done here. I hate what they’ve done to your city. And to think, when we were out there, in battle, I had prayed for victory. I thought the deaths would be for nothing if we failed. But this? I never wanted this,” he stared at Yusuf, imploring him to believe. 

Yusuf stared back, eyes taking him in. His hand grabbed Nicolò’s shoulder. Squeezing, his nails biting into the skin, grounding Nicolò. “You may have had a part, and you must make peace with your God about that. But this?” Yusuf echoed. “You did not do. I cannot forgive you, because I do not blame you,” Yusuf said.

Nicolò sighed, whether in relief or dismay, he was uncertain. His gaze moved back to the Sepulchre. The place he had been promised. Nicolò thought of the priest he had wanted to be, the ideals he had tried to uphold, and now the cold, icy reality that was sitting in his stomach like a rock. Nicolò’s actions—his inactions—hung heavy on his conscience. This was not something easily dismissed or forgotten. He knew he would hold onto the memories of the dead long after he had left Jerusalem.

Without turning, Nicolò placed his hand on Yusuf’s steading grip. He squeezed his hand in silent thanks and in a secret apology. Yusuf may not hold him accountable for the crimes committed here, but Nicolò would still strive to earn forgiveness. He knew his fate now lay with Yusuf. Nicolò would follow him, and help him, and try to live up to Yusuf’s trust and conviction. 

“Let’s go,” Nicolò said. “It is dangerous with all these knights around.” 

Yusuf let his grasp on Nicolò’s shoulder fall. They turned heading back the way they came, continuing to skirt the droves of men. 

A few minutes passed before Nicolò spoke again, “Where would survivors go to hide?”

Yusuf took a moment to ponder the question. Whether about the location itself or how to phrase it in unfamiliar words, Nicolò wasn’t sure. “There is a… place of God. Not far. Survivors could be there?”

Nicolò nodded, following Yusuf’s lead, assured in his new mission. 

They kept their heads down and continued to wander through buildings here and there. Keeping a constant eye out for any signs of movement. When the occasional roaming group of soldiers would appear, Yusuf noticed how Nicolò would always subtly pull in front. He was constantly placing himself between them and Yusuf. He would never speak first, but if the soldiers spoke, Nicolò would reply with a greeting and a wave of the hand. Yusuf knew he was subtly trying to keep their eyes trained on him and not on the ducked, helmeted head of Yusuf. 

Yusuf knew they were drawing close to the temple. Many had sought refuge there in the past days, trying to ride out the siege in relative safety. He hoped to find the place untouched. It was not a temple of Islam, so it might have been overlooked. Maybe survivors could be found, thinking it a safe place to hide. But whatever little faith Yusuf had had in these foreigners and their mercy was suddenly gone when they reached the end of the alley and he saw the dying flames, the burnt black charcoal, and the putrid smell of burnt flesh. 

Yusuf froze in shock; no one could have survived.

Nicolò, who had been watching their flank, almost ran into Yusuf when he suddenly stopped. Turning around, he took in the scene. “This was a holy place?” He asked, venom pulsing behind the words, clearly already knowing the answer. 

Yusuf nodded slowly, His jaw clenched tight and aching as he stared at the bodies of those who had tried to escape and had been struck down as they ran. He felt the bile rise in his throat and looked away. Sinking to the ground, his back against the alley wall. 

Nicolò cursed in his own tongue. Tearing his eyes away and sitting against the wall opposite from Yusuf.

“I did not think…” Yusuf began trailing off without thinking. “I don’t know what to do. They killed everyone.”

Nicolò stayed silent, giving Yusuf space and time to grieve. 

Yusuf took his helmet off, tossing it to the stone street. The clatter resounded against the walls, echoing in the silence. His head tilted back to stare into the sky. “You said ‘my city.’ Before. But I am not from here. Not my city. I came a long way to fight, took an oath to protect a city that was not mine, people that were not mine. I came to kill and gain honor. I wasn’t here for faith, like you. But now seeing this? I feel the pain as if it were my people. As if it were my city.” 

“Just because you didn't come to protect the city for love or for God or for fealty doesn't mean you should feel any less than any other,” Nicolò spoke quietly.

“I know. I know. I just… What do I do now? No one is left, and those that are I can’t get to. I have nothing.”

Nicolò sighed and slid across the ground to sit next to him. He felt Nicolò’s warmth, shoulder touching shoulder. He was trying to ground him, just like Yusuf had done.

“You survive. We can’t die apparently, so you keep living. You keep this in your heart, in your head, and you continue to do good when and where you can. You can’t kill a whole army, even with our...” he waved his hand in a cyclical gesture, eventually settling on a word, “even with our healing. They would take you and keep you locked away,” Nicolò spoke quietly, keeping his voice steady as he stared intently at the wall across from them. “I can’t say my faith is not being tested, but if you believe in your God, trust in Him.”

Yusuf swiveled his head to look at Nicolò. Watching the side of his face as he spoke, “You still have faith? That this is all your God’s plan?”

Nicolò sighed deeply, taking a moment to consider his words. “My faith is not gone. I don’t believe this war is His work. This may have been done in His name, but there is no god in slaughter. Not your God, and not mine. This is man, killing and calling it holy. But I do believe we met for a reason. So yes, I believe God has a plan for us.”

Yusuf turned his head back to the sky when Nicolò said no more. They sat in silence. Grieving. 

Nicolò was the first to hear it: a small murmur, a louder shush, and then silence. Nicolò pawed at Yusuf beside him, getting his attention quietly. He cupped his ear, cocking his head in an obvious pantomime of listening. There was nothing and then suddenly another murmur, another shush, and the sound of soft shuffling on stone. It was coming from behind the wall their backs were pressed against. He looked to Yusuf, hoping he had heard it this time. Yusuf returned the glance with wide eyes. He was already jumping to his feet, grabbing his fallen helmet, and jogging down the street towards the front of the house. Nicolò followed closely, watching the street as Yusuf stepped inside. Upon entering they found a mess; the home had already been turned over. Yusuf was sweeping his eyes over and under everything, desperately looking for signs of life. Nicolò turned to watch the door as Yusuf investigated.

Yusuf made his way to the back room and slowly parted the dividing curtain before Nicolò lost sight of him completely. He continued to keep an eye on the street, watching through the gap of the door for any errant soldiers wandering by. Until he heard a muffled scream from the back. Nicolò jolted and ran into the room, his hand already pulling his sword out of its sheath. 

Rushing in, he found Yusuf crouched on the floor. He had found a hidden crawl space beneath the stairs, covered by a tapestry. There was a large family huddled inside. An older man sat in the front, his hand brandishing a knife. Yusuf had already taken his helmet off to show them his face, his palms face out in a calm surrender, and he spoke to them in quiet soothing Arabic. The faces Nicolò could see were terrified. And when they saw Nicolò enter, the tension in the room intensified. The man pressed his blade in further towards Yusuf. They were unpracticed jerky motions. Nicolò saw the knife was small and dull, probably from their kitchen. However, Yusuf acted as if it was the sharpest scimitar. He had shuffled back several feet, still crouched with his hands up. He glanced back to Nicolò before speaking to the family again. Nicolò heard his name. It stood out, very foreign when bookended with the fluid language.

Eventually, whatever Yusuf said put the man at ease and he lowered his weapon. He slowly crawled out from the wall, standing and taking a good long look at Yusuf, sizing him up. His eyes shifted to Nicolò over Yusuf’s shoulder. He glared at Nicolò, silently challenging him. Seeing if he’d break under the scrutiny. But Nicolò stood his ground, not wavering.   
Whatever doubts this man had about them, or at least about Nicolò, must have been outweighed by his fear of staying. He held his hand out. Yusuf stood and clasped his forearm, shaking once, and then dropping the grasp. 

Deciding there was no immediate danger, and figuring his presence would only cause more tension, Nicolò made his way back to the front door to continue his watch as Yusuf helped the family out of the wall.

Yusuf led their small group along, carefully. He may not know the city as well as locals, but he knew it well enough to navigate them southwards. He only used back alleys and side streets, keeping them off the main roads and out of sight. He ushered them forward, trying to keep a quick pace, trying to keep them on his heels. 

Yusuf was constantly stealing glances back at Nicolò who had decided wordlessly to take up the rear. He was keeping an eye on their backs, simultaneously making sure they weren't being followed and ensuring no one fell behind in their dash. 

Occasionally, Nicolò would meet his gaze, and every time he would give Yusuf a small but definitive nod. It would silently confirm everyone was keeping pace, letting him know they were not being followed, but also, whether consciously or not, assuaging Yusuf’s silent worry: Nicolò was still here. They were still together and Nicolò hadn’t left. 

They needed to stop many times, usually when they had to cross a larger street or when Yusuf saw soldiers close by. They would all press flat against the wall, or when available duck into an abandoned house until Nicolò signaled it was all clear. 

After a few close calls, some longer hold ups, and many hushed conversations, they had managed to weave and wander their way back down the city to reach one of the southern gates. This was the one Yusuf knew to be furthest from the Tower of David, and thus the safest option. He found a small shadowed alcove and instructed the family to keep out of sight and stick to the shadows. Nicolò came up from his position in the back to sit next to Yusuf at the mouth of the alley. This smaller gate was currently unmanned, its forces called away for support or perhaps it had merely been overlooked. Yusuf signaled Nicolò with a jerk of his head, bringing his attention to a small stable within view. There were four black horses tied up, unbridled.

Nicolò, understanding his clear meaning, stood and started to make his way to the horses. His head was on a swivel watching for any movement, any hint of danger. When he reached the makeshift stable he stared down the adjacent street for a long while, waiting patiently before his head snapped back to Yusuf, motioning him forward. Yusuf left the family, signaling them to stay quiet and remain hidden, before jogging over to Nicolò. 

They untied the horses, making quick work of attaching saddles and grabbing anything they felt was necessary before leading them, two each, to the gate. Nicolò and Yusuf opened the doors together, lifting the bar and pushing the door open just wide enough for a horse to get through. Nicolò stayed with the horses, keeping them calm as Yusuf went to collect the family. He ushered them forward. They all silently made the decision to put the women and children on the horses, doubling and tripling up when possible. The men would have to walk. 

But before they could even move towards the open gate, a loud shout sounded from down the street. They saw four knights in identical white tabards rushing down the stone road towards them, their swords already drawn. They were probably on their way back to their posts, or they just happened to be patrolling nearby. But now having seen a large party attempting to exit the city, they were in a quick run, yelling and shouting. 

Yusuf, thinking quickly, turned to the patriarch of the family, speaking as fast as he could, “Run! Take your family and make for the road to Hebron. We will find you. Go! Now!” He threw the reins into their hands and motioned emphatically. He was keenly aware of Nicolò, who had already run forward, hoping to cut off the fast approaching men. His hands were waving, and he was yelling to the men in a hurried explanation. Yusuf practically pushed the family out the doors, pulling it close behind them before he turned to face their looming consequences. 

Yusuf slowly made his way forward in the direction of Nicolò. He stopped a few yards behind him, wanting to be close if this ended in bloodshed, but not close enough to draw too much of their attention. The men quickly reached Nicolò as he continued desperately trying to explain, with whatever lies he had come up with on the spot. The four men encircled them in a formation of a half circle, pressing in, keeping them contained to the dead end as their leader encroached on Nicolò. He was a large intimidating man, and he loomed over Nicolò. There was a fresh jagged scar down his face, red and angry, and it twisted his expression into an ugly contortion, 

Yusuf knew there was nothing Nicolò could say to get them out of this situation peacefully. No amount of lies could explain what they had witnessed. There would be bloodshed. Yusuf knew what they had just done was against every order these men had been given. He just wasn’t sure what Nicolò would do when this inevitably came down to blows. Nicolò had seemingly no compunctions about helping Yusuf, or helping their small group of survivors. He continually supported Yusuf in nonviolent, peaceful ways. But Yusuf knew he hadn’t had to kill anyone yet. If it came down to it, Yusuf doubted Nicolò could kill the men he had fought and lived beside, for a man he had just met. 

As he considered Nicolò’s reactions, Yusuf began to notice one of the men was eyeing him. He could sense the burning glare on his face, which was still hidden by the helmet, but then it shifted down to his bare hands.

He spoke to Yusuf in a language foreign to him. Yusuf turned to the knight, maintaining an air of confidence; he would not let this man find any fear or doubt in his countenance.   
Responding in Greek Yusuf said, “I’m sorry I don’t understand, my friend.” 

Whether it was his accent, or the barely masked fury in his voice, or his dark hands, or the fact he had just ushered Arab citizens out of the city, or all of it combined, this man was clearly unconvinced. He rushed Yusuf suddenly, but he had been ready and ducked just in time to miss the arm coming to restrain him. However, the knight’s other arm made an unexpected grab at Yusuf’s helmet, managing to rip it off his face. Yusuf came up from his crouch and kicked out, hitting the man’s leg hard in a sickening crack of bone, and knocking him prone with a thud. But the damage was already done. With his face bare and the sudden outbreak of violence, all eyes were on Yusuf. 

The ugly, scarred leader moved first, choosing to slice the distracted Nicolò with his drawn blade and throwing him to the ground. Yusuf stared at Nicolò’s fallen form, the pain and anger brewing like a storm within his chest. Yusuf pushed through the haze of fury, and he saw Nicolò was already turning to get up, gasping through the pain. He would heal soon. He grabbed his scimitar from his back and readied his stance in a pose of patient defense. 

The men all rushed him at once, trying to encircle and overwhelm him. Yusuf swung his blade meeting their hits and trying desperately to protect his back as they ganged up on him. 

Soon one of the men got a swipe in, slicing Yusuf’s side and inflicting a shot of sudden pain. He fought through it, knowing the wound would close and the pain would cease. Through the fray of blades and bodies, he saw Nicolò had regained his footing and already had quickly dispatched the man Yusuf had kicked. Nicolò turned and advanced on the ugly man who had cut him. 

However, the leader had seen Nicolò in his peripheral and was already pulling away from Yusuf to meet Nicolò’s long sword.

Now only facing two men and his wound already completely healed, Yusuf began to find a steady groove. He managed to jab the shorter of the two men, causing him to fall to his knees. Yusuf sliced his neck in a quick steady motion. The man’s blood gurgled out of his torn neck, his eyes wide, and his hands trying to stop the flow as he pitched over in a slow death. Yusuf turned to the second man who had stilled at the grisly death of his compatriot. Yusuf saw the rage burn in his eyes as his gaze slotted over to Yusuf. Spitting in Yusuf’s direction, he spoke words that Yusuf had no doubt were ugly and cruel. He could not understand the words themselves, but the meaning was clear from the look in his eyes. He saw the pure hate and unbridled fury. But Yusuf did not cower. He knew worse, had felt worse. This was nothing. He could take their hate and their fury. It did not weigh on his soul, did not make him flinch. He was collected when the man charged him. 

But the man’s rage burned deep as he laid into Yusuf, his hatred driving him with every blow until he knocked Yusuf back and sliced him deep from neck to hip flaying him open. Yusuf gasped in sudden overwhelming pain. 

It had been many hours since he had last died at Nicolò’s hand, but the agony that now pulsed deep inside him was familiar and the darkness that began to cloud his vision enveloped him like an old friend. He heard the distant shout from Nicolò as the last dregs of his consciousness were swallowed. His mind desperately tried to reach out, to stay alert. And then he was gone. 

When Yusuf awoke from his temporary death, he found Nicolò kneeling beside him, blood splattered across his skin. Clumps of his hair had fallen from its tie to frame his face as it bowed over Yusuf. One hand was gripping Yusuf’s shoulder, shaking him, the other shakily hovering over his bloody wounds. The panic slipped from his features instantly when he noticed Yusuf’s eyes moving, when he witnessed his chest rising and falling in deep erratic breaths.

Nicolò looked up to the heavens, his eyes clenched tight. Speaking in his native tongue, he spluttered quick words to the sky. With visible relief, he looked back to Yusuf. “I thought maybe you wouldn't come back,” Nicolò said now in the language they shared. 

Yusuf sat up and Nicolò hesitantly moved his hands back to give him room, but he continued to watch Yusuf carefully as if he would keel over dead again at any moment. “You know what we do. If you couldn’t manage it all those times, how could these al'awghad?” He tried to joke, but then he looked at the men around them. Nicolò had managed to slay the leader and then execute Yusuf’s killer, bloodily. Their fallen bodies mangled and barely recognizable.

Yusuf looked back to Nicolò who spoke quietly now, “I wasn’t sure. You’ve only died by my blade, by my hands. I wasn’t sure if it worked with others. You took a long time. I thought maybe you were gone...” He trailed off, averting his gaze suddenly embarrassed at the implication. 

Yusuf remembered his fear when he saw Nicolò fall at the hands of that brute. At the time he hadn’t realized it was the first time Nicolò was hurt by hands that were not his own. Now thinking back, he suddenly felt the small licking flames of rage and jealousy. He understood how Nicolò must have felt when Yusuf was killed so savagely. No one else was worthy to shed Nicolò’s blood, no one else was worthy of spilling his. 

Furthermore, it hadn’t even occurred to him to consider their healing would only work between them. It seemed unlikely, but until now they had no proof to the contrary. The idea had clearly taken root inside Nicolò’s mind as he had waited with baited breath for Yusuf to come back, filling him with a sudden crushing fear of having to face this new bleak reality completely and utterly alone.

With new understanding and shared relief that they were both alive, Yusuf leaned forward, gently knocking his forehead against Nicolò’s in a small hesitant press. Nicolò’s gaze shot up at the touch, but he pressed back slightly. Their breath mingled between them as they sat in silence. Nicolò’s heart eventually slowed, and the tension of his shoulders visibly loosened. Yusuf shifted back first, but kept his eyes trained on Nicolò. “I am here,” he assured. “Nothing can keep me down, especially not men so weak,” he joked again, trying to lighten Nicolò’s spirits.   
It worked and Nicolò’s lips quirked upwards in a small private smile. He stood, his hand already reaching out to help Yusuf to his feet. 

Yusuf clasped his forearm, letting Nicolò pull him to his feet. And without even a backward glance to the bodies of their fallen foes, they were already moving to the gate. They both discarded their bloody tabards: Yusuf removing his hated disguise and Nicolò forsaking his former life. They were choosing something new. Together. 

Yusuf and Nicolò eventually were able to catch up to the family. They had been moving slowly, only being able to move as fast as their slowest member, causing them to lag enough that Yusuf and Nicolò had no problem catching up. Yusuf explained to Nicolò they would take them to the closest town, Hebron, which was less than a day's walk from Jerusalem. And then with the family’s safety assured, they could decide where to go from there. 

They fell into a casual formation. The women and children were still astride the horses. Yusuf and the family’s patriarch, Mubarak as he was finally introduced, led the group. Nicolò and Mubarak’s eldest son took up the rear. The rest of Mubarak’s sons and son-in-laws walked between the horses, guiding them as they made their way south under the blazing sun. 

Just like when they were navigating the group through the city, Yusuf found himself glancing back over his shoulder every so often. He initially tried to lie to himself, trying to convince his own brain that he was merely checking on the rest of the party as their de facto leader. He was simply making sure everyone was keeping pace. But Yusuf knew deep down he was looking only for Nicolò. Every time his gaze would immediately snap to Nicolò, who was trudging aside Mubarak’s son. They were clearly not speaking, having no shared language between them. 

However, Yusuf doubted they would speak even if they could. 

Even with the knowledge he was looking for Nicolò, Yusuf didn’t completely understand why. But despite his own confusion, every time Yusuf’s eyes found him, something inside Yusuf would settle a little. He had enough self-awareness to know he wasn’t worried that Nicolò would leave, or bolt suddenly, running back to the city to announce they had escaped. He knew if Nicolò had planned to betray him it would have happened long before now. Nicolò had killed for him, and sacrificed everything he knew to follow Yusuf into the unknown. He knew Nicolò was here for good. 

It was simply something inside Yusuf needed to make sure Nicolò was there, with him. Yusuf could admit, although not readily, the distance made him uneasy. Although the circumstances had been detestable, he had enjoyed walking beside Nicolò through the city. They had similar gaits and speed. No one had to slow down or quicken his footsteps. They had walked in stride. Now with Nicolò so far away, Yusuf could already sense his absence beside him.

So Yusuf checked on him, glancing quickly just to make sure Nicolò was in sight, and safe, and as close as he could be with four horses between them. And then he would click his eyes forward. The fear alleviated before it ultimately rose again, Nicolò's absence gnawing at something deep inside him. And Yusuf would turn again, his eyes finding that familiar form. 

“Are you worried about the Frank?” Marabak asked from his side, commenting on the blatant glances, his eyes following Yusuf’s.

Nicolò, who must have felt their gazes, looked over from the point on the horizon he had been staring at and found the two men studying him from the front. He cocked his head in an unasked question before nodding. Trying to assure them that everything back there was fine. 

Yusuf smiled at Nicolò, nodding his head back in recognition and turned forward, breaking their eye contact. “Nicolò isn't a Frank. He is from Genoa. And no, I have no worries about his loyalties. I trust him with my life," and as soon as the words left his mouth Yusuf realized the phrase was simultaneously a lot less and a lot more significant than when it was used for mortals. He couldn’t die, so his life was relatively easy to guard. But being immortal meant he trusted Nicolò even more. He trusted Nicolò with his lives and his deaths, as many as they were going to have.

“Well, I am trusting him with my children’s lives, and their children’s lives, so I hope your conviction is well founded,” Marabak’s tone was harsh, clearly having no confidence in Nicolò’s intentions. 

“He has killed his own to protect me and to secure your safety. So I think he has already done more than enough to earn your faith,” Yusuf replied. “He is a better man than most. Allah brought me to him, and him to me. And then us to you. Do not question his loyalties to me.” 

Marabak said nothing. Yusuf took his silence as a silent resigned acceptance that Nicolò was here to stay. Yusuf hoped Mubarak understood the words he had left out: if he was forced to choose between Nicolò and this group, he would choose Nicolò. Yusuf did nothing by halves. Nicolò was a fixed feature in his life now, and no one would question his place in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a little trouble writing this chapter because I was very torn about portraying a real-life tragedy. I definitely did not want to glorify the violence that happened for the sake of a story. And to that end, I tried to be as cognizant as I could when writing to make sure it was focused more on the characters and their introspection than on the actual events that took place in 1099. Hopefully that comes across.
> 
> Shout out to my beta-reader Lindsay for all her edits!
> 
> And if you'd like to leave a comment it will literally make my day. I would love to hear from you. :)


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